Few smells are as synonymous with summertime as the heady hum of petrol and freshly cut grass – a transformative whiff that’s akin to Proust with his Madeleines for me.
Thankfully though, the ritual of lawnmowing has come of age since my childhood days of half dislocating my shoulder yanking the stiff starter cord on my dad’s aged Suffolk Punch before promptly flooding the engine – again.
